Saturday, August 04, 2007

Fair aesthete;Born of Narcissus and pride.I defy thy convention,As this piece I write.I wreak insult on thy craft;I make it look weak and trite.The only honour I bestow on thee,Is the lie in the third line.

But how else, I ask in humility,Do I leave thy genius unscathedFrom the aspersions of naivety?If I were to imitate thee,Blasphemy it would be!I'd rather seek refuge in this quaint little skill,The art of the insult; thy boots are not for me to fill!

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